by David Weber
Not lie.
“I am Pedi Karuse, daughter of the King of Mudh Hemh. I was captured by a raiding party to be a Slave of God. We were being sent to Strem, to be Servants there, but we were taken by the Lemmar in turn, and now by you. Who are you, anyway?”
One of the other Shin prisoners had recovered from the dragging and now looked over at her with wide eyes.
“What happened that the Vale of Mudh Hemh could be raided?” she asked Pedi in Shin.
“I guess the Shadem found a way through the Fire Lands,” Pedi said, flicking her false-hands in the most expressive shrug her manacles allowed. “With the Battle Lands so picked over, they must have decided to strike deep. In our sloth and false security, we allowed them to come upon us unaware, but I was outside the walls and raised the cry. And was taken anyway, if not unawares,” she snorted.
“What is the language you are using?” the leader asked. Or, she thought that was what he’d asked, anyway. It was difficult to be certain, given the mishmash of Krath and Shin he was speaking.
“It is called Shin,” she told him, and decided to be diplomatic about his . . . accent. “How do you know it?”
“I know it from you,” the leader said. Then he leaned over her, and a knife blade suddenly appeared on the . . . thing in his hand.
The one nearest him, another vern, caught her snap-kick in midair.
“Whoa, there,” the vern said, with an even thicker accent. “He’s just cutting the chain.”
The leader had jerked back so quickly, despite being off center, that she probably would have missed anyway. She filed his—probably “his,” although all of the vern wore coverings which made it hard to tell—extraordinary reflexes away for future consideration. But he seemed remarkably unbothered by her effort to separate his head from his shoulders and gestured at the chain with the knife.
“Do you want that cut off, or would you rather keep it on?”
“Sorry,” Pedi said, holding out of her arms. “Off.”
Now that she could see it clearly, the knife looked remarkably like a simple clasp knife, albeit made of unfamiliar materials. But whatever it might look like, its blade cut through the heavy chain—and her manacles—effortlessly. The vern seemed to exert no strength at all, but her bonds parted with a metallic twang, as easily as if they had been made of cloth, not steel.
“That’s a nice knife,” she said. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to part with it?”
“No,” the leader said. “Not that I don’t appreciate your chutzpah.” The last word was in an unknown language, but the context made it plain, and her false-hands shrugged again.
“I am a Mudh Hemh Shin. It is our way.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the leader said. His face moved in a weird muscle twitch which showed small, white teeth. “I am Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang McClintock, Heir Tertiary to the Empire of Man, and currently in charge of this band of cutthroats.” His face twitched again. “I saw you kick that one guard to death; you look like you’ll fit right in.”
Only three of the six captives were still alive. One, the Fire Guard, had been killed by the Lemmar, and the other two by the weapons of the boarders or when the chain wrenched them across the deck.
Although both of those casualties had been Shin, Pedi didn’t hold them against the newcomers, these . . . “humans” or their guard. War was a way of life to the Shin; from the lowliest serf to the highest of kings. To die in battle was considered a high honor, and many a serf, as the other captives had been, had won his or her freedom by heroic defense against the Krath raiding columns.
Pedi wondered what to do next. Although the serfs came from other clans, it was clearly her responsibility to take charge of them and insure their welfare until they could be returned to their fiefdoms. Should return prove impossible, she would be required to maintain them to the best of her own ability. And at the moment, that ability was rather low.
The female serf who had spoken so abruptly came forward, her arms crossed, and knelt on the deck, head bowed in ritual obeisance.
“Light of the Mudh Hemh, do you see me?”
“You must be from Sran Vale,” Pedi said with a gesture of humorous acceptance.
“I am, Your Light,” the serf said in obvious surprise. “How did you know?”
“If my armsman saw someone from Mudh Hemh bobbing and scraping like that to me, he would die of laughter,” Pedi said. “Get up. Who are you?”
“I am Slee, serf to the Vassal Trom Sucisp, Your Light.”
“And you?” Pedi asked the other serf.
“I am also of the lands of Vassal Trom Sucisp, Your Light,” he said, kneeling beside Slee. “Long may you shine. Pin is my name.”
“Well, in Mudh Hemh, we don’t put much stock in all this bowing and scraping,” Pedi said sharply. “Stand up and act like you know what your horns are for. We’re better off than we were, but we’re not home yet.”
“Yes, Your Light,” Slee said. “But, begging your pardon, are we to return to our lands?”
“If I can arrange it,” she said. “It is our duty.”
“Your Light, I agree that it is our duty,” Slee said in a tone of slight regret. “But surely it is the duty of a benan to follow her master?”
Pedi felt her slime go dry as she replayed the memory of that tremendous leap on the part of the old man. She would surely have died without his intervention—the intervention of a stranger, with no obligation to aid her.
“Oh, Krim,” she whispered. “Oh, Krim.”
“You had not realized, Your Light?” Slee asked. Pedi just looked at her, and the serf inhaled sharply. “Oh, Krim.”
“By the Fire, the Smoke, and the Ash!” Pedi cursed. “I had not thought. My father will kill me!”
“Your Light,” Pin said, “anyone can find themselves benan. It . . . happens.”
“Not for that,” Pedi said, cursing even more vilely. “For forgetting.”
Roger watched the freed prisoners as the discussion of how to crew the vessels wrangled on. Usually, when a ship was captured, a small prize crew was put aboard by the victors. Its purpose was more to ensure that the survivors of the original crew took the captured vessel to the capturing ship’s home port than to actually “crew” the prize itself.
But the Lemmar, almost to a Mardukan, had fought to the death. The reason for that ferocious, last-man defense had yet to be determined, but so far, the reaction to the pirates’ efforts on the part of the Bronze Barbarians and their auxiliaries was fairly negative. The Lemmar had fought viciously and without quarter, but not particularly well. In the opinion of The Basik’s Own, that changed them from heroic defenders to suicidal idiots.
Whatever the Lemmar’s reasons, there were too few left to man this ship, and much the same story was coming from all of the others. Coupled with the anticipated recapture of the convoy’s merchantships to the north, it meant that most of the flotilla’s present and prospective prizes would be severely undermanned by the time they reached their destination.
It was with that consideration in mind that Roger was examining the freed captives. Depending on their background, it might or might not be possible to press them into service as sailors. Thus far, though, they were looking fairly . . . odd.
For one thing, it was clear that the female Cord had “rescued” (to the extent that she’d needed rescuing) was in charge. That was strange enough, since there’d been only two places in their entire journey where women were considered anything but chattels. Even in those two places, a woman would not automatically be assumed to be the boss, but in this case, she most definitely was.
There was also the question of her age. Her horns were rather short and very light in color. That smooth, honey-yellow look was generally only found in very young Mardukans, but there was a darker, rougher rim at the base, so it was possible that their coloration and condition were manufactured rather than natural. The other female captive, who had been doing most of the talking thus fa
r, also had horns that were smoother and somewhat lighter than normal. He wondered if the coloration and smoothness was a societal symbol? If that were the case, perhaps the warrior-female’s companions were deferring to her because the condition of her horns marked her as belonging to a higher caste.
Whatever they’d been talking about seemed to have been wrapped up, though, because the leader—Pedi Karuse, if he recalled correctly—was striding over to the command group with a very determined set to her four shoulders.
“Your girlfriend’s on her way over, Cord,” Roger said.
“She is not my ‘girlfriend.’” D’Nal Cord looked down at the prince and made an eloquent, four-armed gesture of combined resignation and disgust. “I do not play with children.”
“Just save ’em, huh?” Roger joked. “Besides, I don’t think she’s all that young.”
“It was my duty,” the shaman answered loftily. “And, no, she is not ‘that young’; she is simply too young.”
“Then I don’t see what the problem is,” Roger continued. “Unless you’re just feeling picky, of course.”
He was enjoying the shaman’s discomfiture. After all the months of having Cord follow him around, dropping proverbs and aphorisms at every turn (not to mention thumping him on the head to emphasize the points of his moral homilies on a ruler’s responsibilities), it was good to see him off balance for once. And for all of his rejection of the local female as “just a child,” it was clear that the shaman was . . . attracted to her.
Cord glowered at him, and Roger decided to let his mentor off the hook. Instead, he turned his attention to the Mardukan female as she arrived.
“Pedi Karuse? What can we help you with?”
Pedi was unsure how to broach the subject, so she fell back upon ceremony.
“I must speak to you of the Way of Honor, of the Way of the Warrior.”
Roger recognized the formal phrasing as distinctly ceremonial, and his toot confirmed that the terms were in a separate dialect, probably archaic.
“I will be pleased to speak to you of the Way. However, most ways of the warrior recognize the primacy of current needs, and we are currently in a crisis. Could this discussion not wait?”
“I grieve that it cannot,” the Mardukan female answered definitively. “Yet the full discussion should be short. I have failed in honor, through my failure to acknowledge a debt. The debt and other points of honor are, perhaps, somewhat in conflict, yet the debt itself remains, and I must address it.”
“Captain,” Roger called to Pahner. “I need Eleanora over here, please!” He turned back to the Mardukan and raised a hand. “I need one of my advisers in on this. I suspect it’s going to involve societal differences, and we’re going to need better translation and analysis than I can provide.”
Although the vern’s accent was getting steadily and almost unbelievably quickly better, a great deal of what he had just said remained so much gibberish to Pedi. And whatever he’d just said couldn’t change her obligations. Nor could the arrival of this “adviser” he mentioned.
“This cannot, on my honor, wait,” she said, and turned to D’Nal Cord.
“I am Pedi Dorson Acos Lefan Karuse, daughter of Pedi Agol Ropar Sheta Gastan, King of the Mudh Hemh Vale, Lord of the Mudh Hemh. I bring to this place only my self, my training, my life, and my honor. I formally recognize the benan bond under the Way, and I thus pledge my service in all things, from here until we reach the end of the Way, through the Fire and through the Ash. Long may we travel.”
“Oh, shit,” Roger muttered in Imperial. He glanced at Cord, whose incomprehension of Pedi’s language was only too apparent, and hastily consulted the cultural influence database of his toot. Then he consulted it again, cross indexing her words against the original language kernel and every other cultural matrix they’d passed through on their long trek. Unfortunately, it came out the same way both times.
“What?” Cord snapped. “What did she say?”
“Oh, man,” Roger said, and shook his head bemusedly. “And you guys don’t even have a language in common!”
“What?” Pahner asked, stepping over to the three of them.
“Hey, Cord,” Roger said with an evil smile. “You remember all those times I warned you to think before you leap?”
“What did she say?” the shaman repeated dangerously. “And, no, that was usually myself or Captain Pahner speaking to you.”
“Well, maybe you should have listened to yourself,” Roger told him, beginning to chuckle. He waved a sweeping gesture of his arm and Pedi. “She says she’s asi.”
“Oh . . . drat,” Pahner said. He gazed at Pedi for a moment, then swiveled his eyes to Cord. “Oh . . . pock.”
“But . . . But only my people recognize the bond of asi,” Cord protested. “I have had long discussions with Eleanora about the culture of the People and the cultures of others we have met on our travels. And only the People recognize the bond of asi!”
Roger shook his head, trying—although not very hard—to keep his chuckle from turning into full-throated laughter. The attempt became even more difficult when he looked back at Pedi and recognized her frustration at finding herself just as incapable of understanding Cord as he was of understanding her. Their complete inability to communicate struck the prince as Murphy’s perfect revenge upon the cosmopolitan shaman who had appointed himself Roger’s “slave,” mentor, moral preceptor, and relentless taskmaster. Especially since it looked very much to him as if Pedi was going to be at least as stubborn about this benan bond as Cord had been about the bond of asi.
“Well,” he observed with a seraphic smile, “at least you guys will have that much in common.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Oh, they have more than that in common,” Eleanora O’Casey told the people gathered in Hooker’s once again crowded wardroom just over three hours later. “Much more, in fact.”
The problem of prize crews had been partially solved. The five surviving pirate ships had been provided with skeleton crews drawn from all six of the flotilla’s schooners, along with a few of the K’Vaernian infantry who knew the difference between a bow and a stern. Then Hooker, Pentzikis, Sea Foam, and Tor Coll had headed northwest, closehauled and throwing up foam, while Snarleyow and Prince John (busy stepping a new foremast) kept company with Tob Kerr’s Rain Daughter and the captured Lemmaran vessels. It was fortunate that the flotilla had brought along replacement spars as deck cargo aboard Snarleyow. Replacing Prince John’s mast wouldn’t be a problem, but Roger wasn’t at all sure that they’d be able to replace the rigging of both dismasted pirates, as well. Whether repairs could be made or not, however, he felt confident leaving Snarleyow and Prince John to look after things while the rest of the flotilla tried to run down the rest of the convoy the pirates had captured.
The current meeting had been called to try to resolve some of the problems that they would face taking or “recapturing” the remaining ships. In addition, Roger and Pahner were in agreement that it was also time to consider what problems might be anticipated following landfall. As part of that second objective, the meeting would also serve to bring most of the core of the command staff up to date—as far as possible, at least—with the mainland political situation.
“Go ahead,” Pahner said now, pulling out a bisti root and cutting off a slice. “I’ve gotten bits and pieces of what we’re sailing into, but you might as well tell everybody else.”
“Of course.” Roger’s chief of staff pulled out her pad and keyed it on line. “First—”
“A moment, please,” Cord interrupted. “While all of us—” a waving true-hand indicated the humans, Diasprans, and Northerners crowding the compartment “—will understand you well enough, my . . . benan will not. She must be aware of this as well.”
“Oh, that’s okay, Cord.” O’Casey smiled with more than a hint of mischief. “We girls already hashed all this out. She’s up to date.”
“Ah,” Cord replied stoically. “Good.”
O’Casey waited a moment to see if she could get any more of a rise out of the shaman, but he only sat impassively. After several seconds, she smiled again—a bit more broadly—and continued.
“The pirates in the area, as Captain Kerr already informed us, are called the ‘Lemmar.’ Actually, I suspect that the term as he uses it isn’t exactly accurate. Or perhaps it would be better to say that it isn’t completely accurate. He seems to be using it as a generic ethnic term, but as nearly as I can tell, ‘The Lemmar’ appears to be a political unit, as well—similar to the Barbary Sultanate on Earth or the Shotokan Confederacy. It’s based on raiding, high-seas piracy, and forced tribute. As for our particular lot of Lemmar, we captured charts and logs from two of their ships, and we’ve got a good fix on our position, the position of the raid, and the probable route the prize ships will be taking on their way home. So we should be able to find most of them and chase them down. The little local fillip is that, as I’m sure everyone noticed, the Lemmar don’t care to be taken prisoner.”
A fairly harsh chuckle ran through the compartment at her last sentence. The fighters in the wardroom had been through too much—Diaspran, Vashin, and human, alike—in the last year to really care if someone wanted to be suicidal. If that was their society’s choice, so be it; the group that had taken to referring to itself as The Basik’s Own would be happy to oblige local custom.
Which didn’t mean that they were blind to the tactical implications of the situation, of course.
“That’s going to cause some problems retaking the ships,” Kosutic pointed out after a moment, “considering the fact that they apparently don’t care to allow any of their prisoners to be liberated, either. Should we even try to retake the prizes if the Lemmar are going to slaughter any captured crewmen before we get aboard? Will the mainland culture prefer to have their ships and no crews? Can we navigate them to the mainland with no crews? And is there any political payoff to retaking the ships if we get all of their crews killed in the process?”